The Truce
by Qualia
Summary: A story of mystery and betrayal in Sigil, City of Doors, as narrated by Jek the Hat.
1. Default Chapter

There are magnificent times in a cutter's life

_Author's Note:The following story follows a major NPC in my current campaign who's been tasked with negotiating a truce between the PCs and a figure of Sigil's underworld I'm sure you'll all recognise.The PCs themselves are out of town for their own safety, the lucky berks.Any strange in-jokes can be explained if you're willing to email me and sit through my disturbingly large collection of gaming anecdotes. _

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The Truce

There are magnificent times in a cutter's life.Absolutely marvelous, wonderful moments when everything seems to be going perfectly and nothing else in the whole multiverse seems as good as what you're doing right now.

As I lie, face down, at the edge of the putrid waters of the Ditch, I wonder why I haven't devoted my entire sodding life to experiencing one after another of these moments.Would it really have been that difficult to pursue a long life of hedonistic excess, instead of visiting what seems like every miserable place on every miserable plane?As a corpse floats across the water and comes to rest against my leg, I decide that yes, on balance that seems like a splendid idea, and a much better life than the one I seem to have led.

I've also just noticed that I'm narrating to myself.That's not good.When I start narrating to myself I find myself doing barmy things, and thinking that it's a good idea to get out of town, or out of touch, on some planewalking ride again.Experience has taught me to ignore myself when I start thinking like that.My planewalking days brought me… well admittedly they did bring me vast scads of jink and little known darks.And they did make me one of the real bloods among Sigil's chant brokers.But generally speaking they've caused me nothing but trouble and grief.Generally speaking.

For yea, I am Jekkhus (or Jek the Hat, if you prefer, cutter): tiefling, Bleaker, planewalker, blood and apparently a magnet for the Clueless.And this is Sigil, City of Doors, possibly the worst place in all the planes for the Clueless to go.Naturally, this is where most of them arrive.I've lost count of how many leatherheaded berks I've had to nurse through their first years on the planes, and I really, really don't know how I keep getting myself talked into it.I mean, it's certainly not because I'm the kindest cutter on the streets of the Cage.This I know for a fact.If I've lost count of the addle-coves I've known, is it any wonder that I don't know any more how many I've bobbed, peeled or written in to the dead-book?

Not that I didn't have good reasons for doing it, at the time.

Not that those reasons actually meant anything anyway…

But still, no matter how meaningless the reasons we have, it always seems satisfying to have them.Somewhere up on the banks of the Ditch, for example, a rather irate fiend is looking for me, and my blood's guess is that it's not to give me a friendly smile and help me towards the life of luxury I believe I may have mentioned earlier.In fact, I strongly suspect that what it's really looking to do is scrag me a little, torture me a lot, and write me a line in the dead book of my very own.That, in my view, is a good enough reason to want to kill it. Its name is Launkatian, by the way, and it's very good at scragging, torturing and killing.

So, once more, I present myself: lying face down in the mud at the edge of the filthiest, most rank-smelling body of water I have ever encountered after the River Styx itself, my trademark hat and swords hidden under my body, and some deader half covering my legs.It's not very dignified, I know, but you don't get too many dignified corpses in the Ditch, so that's probably a good thing.

In case you're wondering at this point, I am still very much alive.The few deaders I've actually known well either didn't care enough to run or could give a body the laugh much more stylishly than this.No, what I'm trying to do here (although, if you're a real blood you'll have already guessed, and may even have pulled the same trick yourself) is look like just another poor sod who wound up paying the music to some high up and has been left to float and rot, at least until the Collectors get him.The rather sorry state of my gear, coupled with the magical tattoo on my back, should let me blend in just fine.

The tattoo, you see, is of the burg where I grew up.A grand little place called Hopeless.And if you think I'm in a position I don't want to be in at the moment, well cutter, I can only say that you should have met me when I was younger.Blending into crowds, shadows and piles of garbage isn't just a handy talent for an orphan in Hopeless, it's an important survival skill.And my half-memories of hiding from anything bigger than I was in that town fuel the magic that that barmy dabus Fell somehow stuck on my skin years ago.With a little bit of luck, I'll just blend into the background here, and in a couple of minutes I can look back on this and laugh.

So I'll wait for a while…

It's just occurred to me that I haven't lifted my face and taken a breath in rather a long time.This is another peril of auto-narration.I briefly toy with the idea of just leaving my face pressed into the reeking mud until I'm well and truly lost, but decide that on balance I'm much more valuable to a certain bunch of bashers as I am, rather than as a petitioner somewhere.I've got some rather important work to do at the moment, and being a deader's not going to help me much.It's all a rather long story, but I promise you that if I pull this off and survive, I'll tell it to you later.

Pulling my face out of the Ditch-mud is a little harder than I expected, but certainly not beyond the capacity of an experienced blood such as myself.I peer around in the half-dark, looking for anything unfriendly.No, actually make that unfriendly and fiendish… or unfriendly, fiendish and searching for something… It's beginning to worry me that I need to be this specific.Perhaps I should move somewhere friendlier when I'm through here.

In any case, I can't make out much in the dark.For some reason the berks who made me decided not to give me the kind of good eyes that every other addle-cove seems to be walking around with.

Yes, I do mean 'made' as in 'built'.If you're patient I might tell you about it sometime.

I blink a little to clear my vision, which turns out to be a bad idea, 'cause it only ends up getting more mud in them and blurring them further.But just as I'm about to get up and rub them clear I catch a glint of light on a brass chain.Obviously I can't be completely sure, but I'm willing to bet quite a bit that it leads from Launkatian's claw to its 'loth-mutt, which means that my days of carefree Ditch-lying are be coming to an abrupt end.They're not too close though, which means that if I'm careful I can sneak away again.It helps that the canoloth can't smell too well this close to one of the filthiest spots in the Cage, and its nycaloth master ain't paying as much attention to the piles of garbage and corpses as it really should.Sodding typical really.If you want a place searched properly, hire Modrons.

So I take a quick look around and see where I can run.The options are pretty limited, even if I don't rule out going straight over Launkatian's ugly bone-box.I can try to head towards the buildings near the bank, in which case I've got a hard climb ahead which won't actually get me away from Launkatian for long, or I can go further along the bank, which will make more than enough noise for the 'loth-mutt to pick out where I am.Neither one seems likely to keep me out of trouble for long.So that leaves swimming across the Ditch itself.Believe me, if you've ever been near the Ditch, you'll understand why I have to seriously weigh up whether being scragged by fiends is actually worse than trying this.It's not that I couldn't swim the distance, it's just that I don't think I'd ever be clean again if I tried.

Both 'loths growl, and from the sound of it I'd say they're getting closer.And in that moment I decide that a quick swim would probably be good for my health.It may seem strange, but if I stay out of the dead-book long enough, I think I'll record this feeling in one of the Sensate's stones so anyone can know just how much a sound like those two growls helps your survival instinct come to the fore.As quietly as I can I start pulling myself out of the mud.My hat's a total loss, but at the moment I'm not too worried about it.I'm just about to pick my swords out from the gunk when something behind me grabs my arms.

Now according to a lost friend of mine, when this happens you're supposed to push backwards into whatever's grabbed you, and try to hit it in the face with the back of your head.But even though this cutter was a veteran of the Acheron wars, and walked away from more dust-ups than I can recall, I don't think he ever had to do this while knee deep in mud with fiends looking for him.My pathetic attempts to struggle quietly only make this thing laugh.

'Feisty, ain'cha fiendlin'?' it says, much louder than I'd really like it to.'Normally don' get many strugglin' ones roun' here.'

I know the accent.It's a gnoll.There's plenty of them living in the Hive ward, and they're natural Collectors.Only trouble with 'em is that they have a tendency to make their own corpses when their bellies start to get empty.And this one seems to have no idea of when to politely let someone who's hiding stay hidden.

'Bar it,' I whisper over my shoulder.

'Or wha'?' it snickers back.

'Or the 'loths that're after me will make you wish you'd done as I told you,' I say, as politely as I can manage.

'Loths eh?You'd be worthin' a bit o' th' jink, I's thinkin'!'

I almost don't believe how truly leatherheaded some berks can be.In fact, if I hadn't made a good living at times off the stupidity of addle-coves like this one, I'd probably think he was faking it.I can hear the squelching footsteps and clinking of a chain as the two fiends get closer.I don't know if they've heard us yet, but they will soon.

'I've got jink, if that's what you want.'

'Yeh, but they's havin' jink an' sparkles.Makin' us a high-up!'

Well, at least I tried to settle this nicely.'You want to try your luck, berk?Go ahead!'

So the clueless leatherhead raises his voice and calls out 'Hey loths! I's havin' you' fiendlin' 'ere!'Now I really can't believe how stupid he is.Launkatian and its mutt are approaching quickly, so I've either got to do something very canny or learn to enjoy being tortured to death.I've never been a fast learner, so I opt for the first option.As quietly as I can I whisper one of my most useful spells.

Describing the sensation of Astral travel is best left to poets and philosophers, but let me briefly say that it's both blissfully relaxing and bowel-wrenchingly horrifying at the same time, especially when you have to do it very quickly.So when I land on top of a roof overlooking the banks of the Ditch, it's quite understandable that I have to take a minute or two to get my bearings again.It's about the point where I've just finished checking that all the limbs I started with are still where I want them to be that I realise although I'm perfectly safe up here, I've left two extremely valuable, antique, heavily enchanted swords down where two fiends and a luckless gnollish collector are meeting each other.

So I peer down at them, hoping that none of them think to look up here.Judging by the screaming and sounds of snapping bone coming from down there, though, they'll all be occupied for a little while.I've got a little bit of time to think, but not too much.My first thought is to try to snare them in a magical despair, which has served both the Faction and myself well over the years, but I don't think I'm close enough, and Launkatian could probably shrug it off anyway.I'm going to have to fog its mind up a little first, it seems.

I'm still out of breath from the chase that landed me here – I'm certainly not the young cutter I once was – but I manage to get the incantation off smoothly.Without getting closer, though, I can't tell whether or not it's worked.'Loth's seem to love hurting things no matter how addle-coved you make 'em.So I climb as far down the wall as I can, which is enough that the fall at the end doesn't produce more than a minute of ankle-clutching agony, and creep over towards the two fiends.

I've never been terribly good at creeping around.I really prefer for the folks that find me to think that I'm meant to be wherever I am.So when I make too much noise for Launkatian and its pet not to notice, but it doesn't seem to distract them, I figure I've probably pulled the first part off.From as close to the bank as I can manage, I put the despairing hex on the two of them.I almost whoop with sadistic joy when the canoloth stops its chewing and Launkatian sits down heavily in the Ditch-side sludge, 'cause this means that I've given them the laugh.What's more, they're going to have to go back to their high-up, who I happen to know is Shemeshka the Marauder, one of Sigil's premiere knights of the post, and tell her that they lost me.

I wander on down towards them.Launkatian has the blankly glum expression I recognise from years of doing this sort of thing, and the mutt has the gnoll's arm in its mandibles.Where the rest of the gnoll is, the Powers only know.

I reach down into the muck and pull out my swords, the Thrashing Dragon's Tail and the Serene Dragon's Tongue.I've carried these through enough of the worst parts of the planes to realise that they're worth coming back for.I turn around, ready to tell Launkatian to pass a message on to Shemeshka that I'm not quite ready to be lost yet, but find I'm a little groggy, and the words don't seem to want to put themselves in the right order.

This can only mean that I've wandered into the Mind Fog like an idiot.And that means that whatever I plan to do, I need to finish it fast before it takes a hold of me.There's probably no time for speeches, so I thrust the Tail as hard as I can between to of the chitinous plates on the canoloth's head.It slumps to the ground like five hundred pounds of dead fiendish flesh, releasing the arm, which rolls into the Ditch, floats for a while and then sinks from view.Turning to Launkatian, I smile, and then use the Tail to slit its fleshy throat.

As I stumble off into the darkness of the Lower Ward, I feel slightly annoyed that I had to write those two into the dead book, but Launkatian will be back in a few years anyway, and canoloths can be had for a fistful of stingers if you're after that sort of thing.

At the same time, I'm glad I did make them lost, 'cause I'm not finished with Shemeshka yet.Soon, but not yet.


	2. Truce part 2

Part Two.  
  
Say, for a moment, that you want to know the chant on some cutter. You want to know where they call kip, for argument's sake. What do you do? Well, you ask the local blood who knows these things, don't you. And then, because you've asked them so nicely and it's of no real consequence to them anyway, they tell you where you can find this basher's case, and you both go your merry way.  
  
Now, imagine that the cutter you're trying to dig up the chant on is actually a fiendish head hunter for the king of the cross-trade, you're trying to find the place they call kip when they're not off feeding the crows, and you're the local berk who's supposed to know these things. What you do in this case is spend a lot of time talking to barmies, bubbers and berks who think they're real bloods but aren't, buying round after round of drinks that you're sure are better than anything these leatherheads ever tasted before, and listening to whatever amount of screed takes your fancy.  
  
If this seems difficult to you, then you'll understand why I've spent the last two days trying to find Launkatian's case without a great deal of success. This is why I've just walked in the door of the most notorious fiendish kip in all of Sigil: the Styx Oarsman. Under the sign of a gaunt boater on a filthy black river, there's a face I don't recognise. Granted, in most parts of the Cage there's always some unfamiliar faces - this city's always full of bashers just passing through - but it is inconvenient. The Oarsman has a very strict policy on clientele: Tanar'ri only, and every time they get a new doorman I have to go through the rigmarole of explaining to the berk that that particular rule doesn't apply to me.  
  
The door-berk is a tiefling, same as all the others were, and instead of going for the dark leather and menacing spikes that these types all seem to like so irrationally he's wearing a pair of heavy canvas trousers and left his scaly torso bare. As he sees me approach he leans across the doorway in a way that he probably thinks is menacing and narrows his yellow eyes at me. I keep walking until I'm almost nose to nose with him, but he shows no sign of moving, which, considering how many times I've gone through this routine, shows a dangerous tendency in this young basher to not do his research, and an equally dangerous lack of respect for his elders.  
  
'Where's Coffin,' I ask him. Coffin was the last cutter to have this job, and a man who had the virtue of knowing exactly who he could pike and when.  
  
'Coffin's gone,' he grunts.  
  
'That's a shame,' I say, ''cause Coffin and I had an agreement that I could walk through that door.' I try to be nice to these people, really I do. Instead of being sensible, though, he just spits a gobbet of mucus at my feet. It sizzles and starts dissolving the wet filth on the street.  
  
Not wanting to start a fight, which would only encourage the patrons to get a little bit out of hand, and possibly start a brawl, or a riot, or a major fire, I just aim my gaze a little bit past the door-berk and widen my eyes just a little. He's obviously not been there long, and beneath his tougher- than-thou exterior he's quite scared of the fiends behind his back, so he falls for it completely, turning his head just enough to look over his shoulder. While his attention is elsewhere, I shove him just enough to put him off balance. He throws out a leg to catch himself, which leaves the door open. As I stride through it I slap him on the back of his head, which draws a laugh from the bar.  
  
The laughers are a couple of bored looking tieflings mopping up something black and viscous by the light of the single candle glimmering by the bar. This might be a spilled drink, or some experimental soup gone wrong, or it might be something that's really meant to be inside some cutter's body. There's a very good chance that it could be all three. It's business as usual at the Oarsman.  
  
The blood I came here to see is at the edge of the candlelight where I expected him to be: Rule-Of-Three, the bastard son of some Tanar'ric high- up, though he cloaks himself in magical disguises so that he looks like an old, withered example of the not-quite-human Githzerai. He makes it his business to keep up to date with all the fiendish goings on in Sigil, and he's got sources everywhere, judging by the amount and the accuracy of the chant he sells. For these reasons he's one of the cages' premiere chant- brokers, which would drive me barmy if I was in this for the jink.  
  
He smiles as he sees me approach, his yellowish skin forming into great, shadowy valleys around his blackened bone-box, and offers me a bowl full of baked insects. I take one and chew on it before I speak. 'It's been a long time since we last did this,' I say.  
  
'Yes, Jekkhus. It certainly has. I was beginning to think you didn't value my services any more.'  
  
'I've been busy.'  
  
'You were indisposed. You were insane. You were locked away in the Mad Bleaker wing of the Gatehouse.'  
  
I don't bother to deny this. It happens to every Bleaker sooner or later, and it's not a big deal when it does. 'I need to mark some chant, Rule.'  
  
'No favours will be done for you. No gain is received without loss. No chant will be heard before payment.'  
  
'Of course,' I say, for some reason vaguely annoyed that he'd think I'd try to bob him, 'and here it is: I would like you to tell me where the nycaloth called Launkatian kept its kip. You must tell me, I beg of you. And if you don't tell me, the dead-book always has room for one more name.'  
  
'Ah, a request, a plea and a threat. A most pleasing combination. A most worthy payment,' he says, grinning. He takes a long pull from a tall glass full of something before continuing. 'Launkatian lived in the Foundry District. Its case had no windows and almost no door. It lived in Broken Wrench Alley.'  
  
I know where that is, but before I go I need to find out something else. I spear one of the beetles on a bronze toothpick, and while I chew I prick my finger and squeeze out three drops of blood on to the bar. 'Who's watching the place,' I ask under my breath.  
  
Rule-of-Three regards me steadily for a moment, then leans into the candle- light and licks the blood from the bar. As he straightens, he hisses his answer. 'The Doomguard have their canny eyes on the door. The Ash chapter has been persuaded by Shemeshka to do this. But who watches the watchers?'  
  
So, the Doomguard are marking the place. There's also a chance that there's someone else watching them, but knowing Rule-of-Three, there's as good a chance that that's just screed he threw in so he could watch me hit the blinds trying to work it out. In any event, it's a chance I'm going to have to take.  
  
He looks expectantly at me from his bar stool, because he's waiting for me to humor him and ask him a third question. Knowing what I do of the cambion and his kind, I know he wants me to ask something else, so he can collect a third payment, a third threesome, for some purpose I'm sure I'm better off not knowing about. It'll really piss him off if I don't but he can pike it. It's not like I'm his favourite customer anyway. Instead I grab another one of the insects and stand up. 'I may need you again soon, Rule,' I say as, just for a second, he frowns slightly. Regaining his placid demeanor, Rule bows at me as I turn around and leave the Oarsman.  
  
Outside, the rain is coming down in brown, sulphurous sheets, but in the distance the flame of the Great Incinerator continues to burn, and the lights of the Foundry district surrounding it beckon. 


	3. Truce part 3

Part Three  
  
I've seen better looking places than the Furnace district. I didn't even have to go very far, though I'd be the first to admit that there's a certain attraction to being some distance away from the constant rain of ash from the Great Furnace.  
  
Sigil's Lower ward has always been known for its smog, even more so than the rest of the Cage. But since the Doomguard moved back into Sigil after the Faction War and too over disposing of the city's junk, the folks who live their lives in the shadows of the immense smokestacks of the Great Furnace seem to have been living their lives in a permanent foul-smelling haze.  
  
As I trudge towards Broken Wrench alley it's raining. This means that a lot of the crud is being scraped out of the sky, but it's also turning the ash that blankets the street into a thick paste that's clinging to my boots like whitish-grey glue. I have an uncomfortable feeling that it's eating them away, but there's not a lot I can do about that at the moment. My legs are aching from walking through the streets all night, my eyes are heavy from too little sleep, I'm wet, I'm cold and I still smell like the Ditch. There's some Clueless out there somewhere who owe me a whole lot for all this.  
  
My plan at the moment, in case you're wondering, is to rob Launkatians house. To a lot of folks out there this'll seem like gratuitously adding insult to injury, but to the not-quite-so-canny-as-they-think-they-are cutters who somehow make a living banging around the Cage getting into trouble with fiendish criminal overlords it's just good sense. Shemeshka the Marauder has jink, darks and spies in every corner. I, on the other hand, have two chivs, a handful of coins and a lingering feeling that no good can come of living my life in this way. If I can strip Launkatians kip I'll have a bit more and Shemeshka will have a bit less, and we'll be a little bit closer to being even. I realise that this sounds addle-coved, and I suppose it is, but it's keeping my mind off the fact that, having promised to negotiate a truce between a certain bunch of bashers and the King of the Cross-Trade, I don't really have any ideas about how to do it.  
  
I put my foot down into cold ash-mud, interrupting this morbid train of thought. My left boot is sitting a step behind me, stuck fast in the sludge. I croak out a non-specific curse, which sadly fails to bring the wrath of creation down on all those who've driven me to this sodding pitiful state, and trudge on. There's only a little way to go to get to Broken Wrench alley, assuming there's no razorvine on the street between here and there.  
  
I arrive more or less more or less intact and cast my tired eyes around. Rule-of-Three said that the Ash chapter of the Doomguard are marking the place, and sure enough there's a barmy looking sod sitting, half covered in rags and the other half in ashy muck, rattling his bone box to the empty air. The Sinkers have changed their tune since the war, and sad-looking sods like this now crawl all over the Cage, scragging bits of garbage wherever they find it. The useful stuff they keep, and the rest goes to the Furnace, and from there straight back to the streets as ash and smog.  
  
I don't really want the Sinkers marking me ankling on into Launkatian's case, but I can't see any way around this basher. Fortunately, I've tumbled to an infallible rule during my years of planewalking, and it's served me well in situations like these. I limp up to the barmy Doomguard and drop some jink in font of him. 'I don't think the Sinkers will remember me being here,' I tell him.  
  
'Good leg, that one! Fish sing so strangely.'  
  
Well, if there's another thing I've learned, it's that anyone who relies on infallible rules is going to hit the blinds sooner or later. Sometimes you have to do something stupid instead. With that in mind I bring myself down, so the two of us are face to face. I can smell the smoke on his breath and see some sort of mark on his left eye. He's looking straight at me, which is going to make this a whole lot easier. I stare straight at him, and while we watch each other I start humming, just loudly enough that I can hear myself. The note's just right - long and steady, and it's almost lost under the distant, constant rumble of the Cage going about its business. He's hearing it without knowing he's hearing anything. It doesn't take me long. I've hypnotised so many folks that it doesn't even feel like magic any more. Gently I close his eyes.  
  
'When you wake up,' I tell him, 'you'll be terribly thirsty. That bub they sell at the Winged Worm will be just what you feel like.' The Winged Worm is just far enough away from here that he should be able to get a drink or two in his belly before the spell wears off. 'After your first drink, you'll feel right miserable, and you'll drink quickly to warm forget this whole miserable night.' That should do it. If the Sinkers don't look too hard, all they'll get from this is an idea to hire better markers next time.  
  
'Wake up,' I tell him, before stepping out of his way as he gets to his feet and lurches off into the rain.  
  
And so to Launkatian's case. The building is the same sort of leaning, timber-and-stone building that you find all over the Cage. This being the Lower Ward, though, it's got enough damp ash coating the walls that it looks like it's been attacked by some plaster-happy Chaosman, who may well have been blind to boot. This strange line of thought is interrupted by an involuntary sneeze. Damn auto narration, it's keeping me out in the rain.  
  
Looking closer, I can see why Rule said there almost wasn't a door. The ash and mud have caked on to it in strange ways, making it look like it's been sealed up, and battered down, maybe even chewed up and spat back into place, so that I have to look at it for some time before realising 'oh, it's a door!'. The ash forms a seal around most of the edge. I can see now why Launkatian chose this place. As a 'Loth it was probably still able to teleport, in which case doors are purely optional, and all some addle- cove looking at the place would see is another dark, empty house. That Sinker I just sent off must have had the most boring job in Sigil. No wonder he talked to himself.  
  
There aren't any windows facing the street, and any attempt to force the door open would dislodge the ash, leaving such an obvious sign of my little case-break that I may as well carve 'Jek the Hat was here' into the lintel. With my options being whittled away, I struggle and curse my way up a forgotten lead drainpipe on to the roof. The roof is made of tin plates, 'cause most of the Lower Ward's denizens don't want something flammable over their heads when the cinders come down from the Furnace. It also makes it relatively easy to pry up a piece enough for me to slip down into the house.  
  
The upper floor is empty except for the dust, which makes sense. Launkatian probably only would've needed to sleep once or twice a year, so the building was basically a prop. It's also been used to store a few bits and pieces, because even fiendish warrior-spies need to garnish folks from time to time. I manage to pick up a nicely-sized bag of jink, some sparkly rocks and, to my very great delight, a pair of new boots, made from the hide of some beast form the Plane of Ice. The warmth and dryness that enfold my feet as I slip them on is one of the greatest joys I've felt in some time. I actually find myself sighing involuntarily, embarrassing as that is.  
  
All this sudden warmth and good cheer probably explains why I fail to hear the skittering sound of tiny claws on the floor, or mark the tiny glimmers of light from a myriad of eyes. This really is unprofessional of me, not to mention hazardous to my health, and it's a habit I must train myself out of one of these days. This is the thought that I find crawling through my head as a vice grips my skull, fire pours into my eyes and my jaw tries to unhinge itself independently of any feelings I might have on the matter.  
  
By the time I hit the floor, everything's already gone black. 


	4. Truce part 4

Part Four  
  
There's not a lot to be said for pain. Pain makes a body scream and cry, and completely destroys your jaded-planewalker façade. Pain makes you do stupid things like drink too much cheap bub and wind up in the Gatehouse. Pain makes you scared of clueless leatherheads you wouldn't ordinarily waste breath on. There's definitely not a lot to be said for pain, but you can say one thing in its favour: it lets you know you're alive.  
  
For instance, the pounding of my head and the queasiness in my stomach are telling me in no uncertain terms that whatever happened in Launkatian's case back there, it wasn't enough to write me into the dead book. I've been to a lot of the places bashers go when they finally get lost, and none of them have involved headaches and nausea to any great degree. Even the unpleasant ones tend to involve more fire and sharp things.  
  
With that in mind, I check to see that I have all the appendages I remember. First impressions are good: one head, two arms and two legs all seem to be in working order. My tail doesn't seem to want to move, but I work out that that's 'cause I've been lying on it long enough to send it numb. Just when I plan to shift my weight and fix the problem, the ground obliges and does it for me, rolling me on to my back. Despite my semi- conscious state, I'm instantly leery. The smell of the air tells me I'm still in the Cage, and the Cage isn't known for providing obliging surfaces for a sod to sleep on. So either I've left the Cage, or.  
  
Movement. I can feel myself swaying rhythmically, and I can hear the sounds of Sigil. I'm being carried along the street in something.  
  
I assure you, it doesn't normally take quite this long for me to work out what's happening when I wake up.  
  
'You're awake, I can tell,' says a voice somewhere above me, further complicating the situation. I'm going to have to open my eyes now, I can tell, and I'm not going to like it.  
  
Something heavy thumps down on my chest. It feels boot-shaped. A boot.  
  
'Don't make me press any harder than I have to,' says the voice. The accent is clipped, firm. Probably learned during whatever training it is that turns Hardheads into Hardheads. I ready myself for the worst, and open my eyes.  
  
'Powers be damned,' I manage to croak out before I have to shut them again. In between I've managed to catch a glimpse at a face surrounded by Hardhead-styled armour.  
  
'You'll have to take that up with the priests, berk. Or perhaps the Athar. In any case, it's not what I brought you here to talk about.'  
  
'Where's here?' I ask. You'd be surprised how often this works.  
  
'Right now, the corner of Maidenhead row and Blue lane.'  
  
That's a fair walk from Broken Wrench Alley. If he's telling the truth, I've been out for at least an hour. It also means we're in the border region between the Lower Ward and the Lady's ward. We're heading out of my territory and into his.  
  
'Have I been scragged? Is this about the jink in my bag? 'Cause I can assure you that Launkatian won't miss it.'  
  
'You that sure, berk?'  
  
'Yeah - saw its body on a collector's wagon.' No reason this wrong-headed sod needs to know the truth.  
  
'It's not about the jink. Keep it, for all I care,' he says. And if my night could have gotten any worse, it probably just did, because this basher is obviously as bent as Sigil itself. He's also a high-up in the Harmonium, 'cause a normal, Hardhead thug looking for some garnish would've just bobbed the jink and sparkles out of my bag, said "Jink? What jink? I don't remember any jink?" and scragged me anyway. I never had a mother, but if I had, she probably would have had a saying like 'There are knights of the post, then there are fiends, then there are bent Hardheads'. I say that to some of the Clueless sods I meet occasionally. Maybe some of them will say it to their children.  
  
I realise I've drifted off into an internal monologue when whatever we're in has to turn suddenly, and my feet hit a wall. 'Stay with me, Jek,' says my friendly, powerfully corrupt, travelling companion, 'I'll need you soon.'  
  
'Cutter, you need me and my problems like a chiv in your ear.'  
  
'I don't give a toss for your problems. You're just going to help me get something done.'  
  
'I've never worked for the Harmonium before, and I don't have any plans to start.'  
  
'Yeah, you've made your opinion of us pretty clear in the past. I remember you from the battle at the Armoury.'  
  
Now that brings back some less-than-pleasant memories. For a second, we both go quiet, remembering the violence that tore through Sigil during the Faction War. If this basher was at the Armoury, watching the Sinkers' Spheres of Annihilation dance in the air above the carnage, it's no wonder he doesn't really hold out much hope for law and order any more.  
  
I open my eyes again. My hand, shielding my face from the dim light, sways drunkenly in front of me. 'What am I supposed to be doing for you?'  
  
'No point in telling you yet,' he says. 'Can't be sure you won't just run to your pitiful excuse for a Faction and ruin the whole business.'  
  
Well, no point in worrying about it in that case. He obviously thinks he can manipulate me, but my mind was put together by Yugoloths, and no-one can do that better than them. There's a bit of quiet again. I think I'm in a sedan chair, but obviously it's a large one if both of us can fit in it.  
  
'You know, you didn't have to attack me back there,' I say, trying to be reasonable again. It's going to be the death of me one day, I can tell.  
  
'We didn't. No good roughing up our tout too much.'  
  
'I'm not your damn tout. And if it wasn't you, who was it?'  
  
'Cranium rats. Whole building was crawling with them.'  
  
That makes sense, I guess. I'm sure I would've noticed someone sneaking up behind me. I've had to get good at that over the years. And magic doesn't work on me as reliably as it might. A cranium rat pack's mind blast would do the job though, especially if the pack was large enough. It also explains why Rule-of-Three said that someone apart from the Doomguard was keeping watch on Launkatian's case.  
  
'What did the rats want with that kip?'  
  
'I look like I care?'  
  
'Yeah, right. I forgot you were an all-powerful enforcer of the Harmonium.'  
  
The jostling and jolting of the ride slows, and then stops. The Hardhead opens a side door and motions for me to get out. 'This should be far enough,' he tells me.  
  
'Far enough for what?'  
  
'Just get out, berk'.  
  
I slide myself out of the sedan chair and into the street. The rain has slowed to a drizzle that's just strong enough to keep the smog from rising, but for some reason it's not too cold. Probably the new boots. I'll have to look into that later.  
  
Before the Hardhead can close the door and get ankled off I take care to mark as much about him as possible. He's human, or something reasonably similar, tall, but leans to one side a little. He'd probably tell me it's an old battle wound given to him by some wrongheaded, lowlife Bleaker, but it's more likely to be some bub-induced fall that's healed badly. He's got green eyes, and a beard trimmed into a neat goatee. Probably looks great on parade up at the Barracks.  
  
Then he slams the door, and the four bariaur carrying the sedan chair trot off into the night.  
  
Sod this, I need a drink. 


End file.
